The Tenth Chamber Read Free

affairs, I’m afraid. We’ll be away soon. I know a company that can help with the cleanup. The brother of one of my men in Montignac.’
    ‘We’ll use our own labour,’ the abbot replied. His eyes were wandering over the book-strewn floor. He stooped to pick up a soaking wet Bible, its sixteenth-century boards and leathers already possessing the ever-so-faint sweet smell of rekindled fungi. He used the folds of his habit sleeve to blot it but realised the futility of the act and simply placed it on the reading table, which had been pushed against an intact bookcase.
    He shook his head and was about to leave for morning prayers when something else caught his attention.
    In one corner, some distance from the piles of pulled-down books, was a distinctive binding he failed to recognise. The abbot was a scholar with an advanced degree in religious studies from the University of Paris. Over three decades, these books had become his intimates, his comrades. It was akin to having several thousand children and knowing all their names and birthdays.
    But this book. He’d never seen it before; he was certain of that.
    One of the firefighters, an affable, lanky fellow, watched closely as the abbot approached the book and stooped to inspect the binding.
    ‘That’s a funny-looking one, isn’t it, Father?’
    ‘Yes, it is.’
    ‘I found it, you know,’ the fireman said proudly.
    ‘Found it? Where?’
    The fireman pointed to a part of the wall that was no longer there. ‘Just there. It was inside the wall. My axe just missed it. I was working fast so I threw it into the corner. Hope I didn’t damage it too badly.’
    ‘Inside the wall, you say.’
    The abbot picked it up and straight away realised its weight was disproportionate to its size. Though elaborate, it was a small book, not much larger than a modern paperback and thinner than most. Its heft was a result of waterlogging. It was as soaked and saturated as a sponge. Water leaked onto his hand and through his fingers.
    The cover was an extraordinary piece of leather, distinctively reddish in hue with, at its centre, a beautifully tooled depiction of a full-standing saint in flowing robes, his head encircled by a halo. The binding was embellished with a fine raised split-cord spine, tarnished silver corners and endbands, and five silver bosses, each the size of a pea, one on each corner and one in the middle of the saint’s body. The back cover, though untooled, had five identical bosses. The book was firmly held closed by a pair of silver clasps, tight around wet leaves of parchment.
    The abbot sorted through first impressions: thirteenth or fourteenth century, potentially illustrated, highest quality.
    And hidden. Why?
    ‘What’s that?’ Bonnet was at his side, thrusting his stubbled chin forward like the prow of a ship. ‘Let me see.’
    The abbot was startled by the intrusion into his thoughts and automatically handed over the book. Bonnet dug the thick nail of his forefinger into one of the clasps and it easily popped open. The second clasp was more stubborn but only slightly. He tugged at the front cover and just as he seemed to be at the point of discovery, the board stuck firm. The waterlogging made the covers and pages as adherent as if they’d been glued together. In frustration he exerted more force but the cover stayed put.
    ‘No! Stop!’ the abbot cried. ‘You’ll rip it. Give it back to me.’
    The chief snorted and handed the book over. ‘You think it’s a Bible?’ he asked.
    ‘No, I think not.’
    ‘What then?’
    ‘I don’t know, but there are more urgent things this morning. This is for another day.’
    However, he was not cavalier about the book. He tucked it under his arm, took it back to his office and laid a white hand cloth on his desk. He placed the book onto the cloth and gently touched the image of the saint before hurrying off to the church to officiate at the Prime service.
    Three days later, a hired car pulled through the